Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (8 page)

The driver, perhaps sensing her disappointment with the embassy’s appearance, told her that she’d find a pretty courtyard in the center, with umbrella-tables for sitting outside and enjoying lunch.

“And see?” he added, cheerfully pointing out nearby establishments. “
Starbucks, MacDonald’s, Sheraton Hotel.
We have everything!”

She laughed. “What more could anyone want?” Indeed, she was itching to explore, but it was the local markets and vivid shops that enticed her. She was about to say as much to Peter, but she could see from the tension etched in the crinkles around his eyes and the tightness of his lips that he wasn’t in the mood for chatting. He whisked her off to meet his staff.

Mercy knew he had already become acquainted with embassy personnel on two previous visits. He introduced her to two of them who were waiting inside to greet them. Brad Stevens, a plump and pleasant man about ten years older than Peter, spoke Spanish as if he were a native. Carlotta Smith, the striking daughter of a Mexican woman and an American mining engineer, had grown up in the city. Carlotta offered them coffee, then excused herself to pick up a ringing phone from the information desk.

“She’s indispensable,” Brad confided to Mercy as he walked them through a maze of corridors. “Carlotta’s a brilliant woman, really.” She wondered about that last tacked-on word. As if he had to provide an excuse for her attractiveness. Mercy wondered why some men couldn’t seem to accept that a woman could be both beautiful and smart.

They passed offices dedicated to passport requests, Immigration, Social Security, legal referrals and other services needed by American citizens traveling or living abroad.

“By the way,” Brad said, “that there is the room where dependents receive their in-country briefings. You’ll be given a schedule and can choose a convenient time, Mrs. Davis.”

“Thank you. And it’s Mercy.” She smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Brad grinned. “Good.” With his freckles and red hair, he reminded her of an old Howdy Doody puppet her father had treasured from his childhood. The senator once told her that, even in the worst of times, one look at that goofy, innocent face made him smile. Now that her father was gone, Howdy had a place of honor on a shelf in the guest bedroom of her Georgetown home. Or would have that place again when she returned to DC and unpacked him.

Brad was jabbering on, listing off the names of other employees as they passed their offices. “And this is Carlotta's office. Like I was saying, she's totally amazing. The woman can smooth over any misunderstanding in one sentence or less.”

“Sounds like a valuable asset to the embassy’s mission,” Mercy commented.

Peter nodded. “Absolutely. Lucky to have her.”

The interior of the building might easily have been as drab as the outside, but for a savvy decorator’s touch. Walls, atriums, even sections of flooring had been decorated with a mixture of Aztec and Spanish artifacts and art. Mercy was in heaven. Seeing such gorgeous paintings, sculpture, and objects d’art made her ache for time to spend with her own painting, although she had willingly put that aside to support her husband's career.

Looking up at a mural that spanned an entire wall, she murmured, “This is absolutely stunning.”

“If you think this is grand, just wait until you see your house.” Brad winked at Peter.

Mercy turned to her husband. “Our house? I thought we’d agreed to rent a small apartment until we located something more permanent that we both liked.”

Peter rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, looking tickled with himself. “I'm one jump ahead of you, sweetheart.”

His sudden smugness worried her. “Oh really.”

Brad laughed. “Peter, you’re cruel. You didn't tell her?” He walked away a few steps, as if to give them some privacy.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

“I wanted to keep it a secret.” He gave a boyish shrug. “This is my way of thanking you for all you've done to help my career. I doubt I’d have gotten this post if it weren’t for your lobbying on my behalf.”

She was surprised but also pleased by his sudden sweetness. This was a Peter she hadn’t seen in a very long time. “Well, we’ve always said we’re a team.” She smiled and reached for his hand. “Besides, it's not exactly a hardship, accompanying you to exotic posts around the world.”

“Of course. But we both know, if you wanted it, you could have had a curator’s position with just about any museum in the world, including the Louvre. Then where would I be? Without you, sadly.”

She was touched. Deeply, heart-achingly touched. “Oh, Peter.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “I just wanted you to know how grateful I am.”

Mercy pulled him close for a rare hug that she needed as much, she suspected, as he did. This didn’t make up for everything that had gone wrong between them, but maybe it was a sign of better times to come.

Brad ambled toward them again. “Sorry if I let the cat out of the bag,” he mumbled, blinking his gentle eyes sheepishly.

Peter clapped him on the back. “No big deal. The surprise will be in seeing our new home.”

8

Through the limo’s tinted windows Mercy gazed up at sleek glass-and-concrete high rises alternating with elegant Baroque churches and Art Nouveau architecture of the early 20
th
century. When she’d first learned that Mexico City was the second largest city in the world, only out-sized by Tokyo, she was astounded.

Ciudad de Mexico
also was the most colorful city she’d ever seen. Vibrant hues exploded everywhere. Huge pots of geraniums, hibiscus, and roses sat on nearly every street corner. The upscale shops in the
Polanco
district rivaled the glamour of any in D.C., L.A., London or Paris. But every now and then the car sped past pockets of deplorable shacks and hovels where children in rags played barefoot in garbage-piled alleys. Then, just as suddenly, the car turned back into an area of opulence. Red and blue tile roofs, abundant walled gardens, brilliant white stucco walls, and shutters of every shade in the rainbow.

The limo rolled to a stop in front of one of these mini-mansions. “Are we dropping in on the ambassador?” she asked.

Peter laughed.  “Woman of little faith.  What sort of house do you think I'd put you in?”

“One we can afford, I hope.” He couldn’t be serious. This was
not
the house he meant for them to live in. 

The driver opened the door for them. She followed her husband out of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk. Peter slipped his arm around her waist. He guided her up brilliant, hand-painted tile steps toward an ornate door of exotic woods carved into an Aztec pattern complete with ghoulish mouth and bulging eyes. Fascinating, yes. But suddenly she no longer felt in control of her own life.

Mercy pulled Peter up short of the door.  “Wait. This isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?”  There was a hint of irritation in his voice. Shame on her—questioning his judgment!

“The slum we just drove through, you must have seen it. We're here as a cultural lifeline between the people of Mexico and the United States. How can we expect them to think we care? Here we’d be living in a veritable palace while our neighbors are lucky to find shelter under a rusty sheet of tin.”

Peter was shaking his head. “You don't understand. We represent a powerful and important country. We have a certain status to uphold. They won't respect us if we live in rubble.”

She stared at him. Did she really know this man?

Another thought struck her, lending her hope that she could still salvage the situation. “This is just one of the houses you’ve looked at, right? I mean, you haven't committed us, have you? Please say you haven't.”

“I've signed a lease, for three years,” he snapped. His jaw locked; he glared at her. “You’re going to love it.” It was an order, not a promise.

She felt her entire body flush with anger. It took her over a minute to find her voice. Even then her throat stayed so tight she had to choke out one word at a time.”How. Could. You.” She swallowed, but the lump wouldn’t go away. “How could you do this without letting me even
see
the place where I was going to live?”

Peter gave the door a furious shove. “Fuck it, Mercy. Cut me a break, will you? I wanted this to be special for us.”

He was pouting now. And bristling. She hated when he got like this. 

“I just wish you'd consulted me. If you'd emailed me photographs of the houses you were considering—” She broke off when he pushed her ahead of him into the foyer. A matronly, gray-haired woman in a navy-blue uniform stood facing her.

The woman spoke in rapid Spanish then switched to halting English, as if she’d practiced a speech for the occasion. “You are most welcome to our country, Signora Davis. I am most very happy to be for you.”

Mercy cast Peter a final withering glare then smiled at her welcoming party of one. “Thank you so very much.  This is a beautiful house. Are you the housekeeper?”

“
Si. Mi nombre es Lupe
.” The woman continued in English, “I will introduce you to staff now.”  Lupe looked to Peter, as if for permission, but he was scowling at her. She smoothly altered the plan. “Later I introduce. Señor, he would like to show you around himselfs, and so…I will leave you.” She turned and walked, head high, through a door that Mercy assumed led to the kitchen. The aromas of cinnamon and cloves wafted through the door as she passed through.

“She’s priceless,” Mercy said. “Forget the house, I just want to live with Lupe.”

Peter laughed, which she took as a promising sign. Perhaps she shouldn’t have doubted his good intentions. After all, they’d need to do a good deal of entertaining while living here. That would be difficult to pull off in a condo or more modest house. Peter might actually be doing her a favor.

She wondered to what lengths she’d need to go to impress slave traffickers and worm her way into their lives. Every time she thought about even talking with Lucius Clay she felt nauseous. The idea of having to make polite conversation with actual criminals set her stomach on edge. But she knew in her heart she’d do just about anything if it brought her mother home safely.

For the first time she noticed the paintings mounted at tasteful intervals along the stucco walls. Several were landscapes she’d painted. Somehow Peter had slipped them out of their Georgetown house and arranged for them to arrive ahead of her.

She felt herself relax a little. Mercy stepped toward the nearest painting, one of her favorites—a landscape showing the old C&O canal that cut through Georgetown. “How did you manage without my knowing?”

“I can be pretty sneaky when I need to be.” He winked at her and took her hand in his. “I nearly spoiled the surprise on the flight. It was hard not to tell you. I knew if we started talking I’d blab. Had to keep busy.”

“I noticed.”

“Come and see the rest of the place. We’ll start upstairs. That’s the best part.”

She could feel his excitement through his grip. Being touched this way, with real enthusiasm and maybe even passion, reminded her of how much she’d missed the intimacy of their early months as young-marrieds. They hadn’t made love in weeks.

On the second floor, Peter stopped in front of a dark, richly grained door—chestnut, she thought. It was identical to at least five others that she could see along the hall. She guessed there must be at least six bedrooms. Large ones, from the spacing between the doors.

Peter watched her expression as he pushed open the door and guided her inside.

The room burst with the colors of pure sunshine, as natural as the desert surrounding the city. On the walls hung hand-woven textiles of brilliant whites, sandy creams and golden hues. Pottery, glass and silver vases held fresh-cut flowers. A walk-in closet revealed the clothing she’d sent ahead, already unpacked and pressed and hung.

She gasped. “Peter, what a gorgeous bedroom!”

“You haven’t seen all of it,” he said proudly.

He stepped over to a tall lattice screen. Rolled it aside. A second room continued beneath a skylight. Arranged under the open patch of sky were her easel, two cases of buttery Rembrandt pastel sticks, a supply of her favorite imported pastel paper, sketch pads, pencils, charcoal and a table draped and ready for still-life arrangements.

Tears welled in her eyes. “You’ve made a studio for me!” Her throat closed with emotion. “Peter, this is just…just amazing.”

He put an arm around her shoulders. “You need to return to your painting. You’ve given me more of your time than I ever deserved.”

“But we agreed when we married--”

“—that I needed a hostess and, yes, a partner in this diplomacy business. Nothing was said about your giving up everything you loved.”

Mercy nodded, at a loss for words. “This is so very thoughtful of you.”

She felt spoiled and petty for criticizing his choice of a house. Whatever flaws it, or he, might have, she’d deal with.

Then her gaze settled a second time on the walk-in closet. And she noticed what was missing.

A chill worked its way up from her toes, through her body.